


The Pyromancer's Potion

by Maracuya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Crack Relationships, F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:39:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maracuya/pseuds/Maracuya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an absurd crack!story. Lord Stark has just arrived in King's Landing, and a mistake at his welcome feast triggers off changes that no-one would have ever foreseen...<br/>Funny at the beginning, more serious towards the end. Some crack!pairings, but also some common ships. This story has been finished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own my works of fanfiction/fanart. I do not profit from the stories or drawings, nor would I  
> ever seek to do so. All credit for characters, plot and settings go to the respective original author or artist.

It was the first day after their arrival in King's Landing and Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, new Hand of the king was... pissed off. Not even he knew another expression for it. He had had to leave his beloved Winterfell, his wife and sons, one of them unconscious and with a crushed backbone. The voyage south had been a catastrophe. His former friend, King Robert, had turned into a fat drunkard. His daughters were fighting each other constantly, instead of behaving like sisters. The Lannisters hated him and didn't want him in the capital. On arriving, his wife had already been in King's Landing, hidden in a brothel of all places, because she had travelled ahead by boat secretly – with a maimed hand and more bad news for him. Next, Lord Eddard had found out that the king, Robert, first of his name, was even more careless and disinterested in ruling the country than he had thought; the Seven Kingdoms were indebted so badly that they could well be quartered by their biggest creditors: the Iron Bank in Braavos and Lord Tywin in Casterly Rock. Damn, damn, damn, by the old gods and the new!

And what did the king want now? A welcome feast and a tourney! As if there were no other things to do and as if they had coffers full of gold.

Lord Eddard thought that things couldn't get any worse. It was good he didn't know how incredibly wrong he was...

 

 

“Ned, come over! Sit next to me! Have a drink!” the king boomed from the other side of the room. The welcome feast was about to begin. Lord Stark sighed inwardly and moved on towards the dais. At the lower tables he spotted many men he had seen during their trip south, for example Sandor Clegane and many lesser knights. Eddard frowned. Why was the Hound actually sitting there? Wasn't he on duty to stand guard behind Joffrey Baratheon as his sworn shield? Ah, well, what did it matter to him.

Next to the scarred warrior, there was a pallid man the Warden of the North thought he had seen before, but he wasn't quite sure where to put him. Something about the man was disquieting, though he looked harmless enough in comparison to Clegane, and Lord Stark didn't know what it was that made his skin crawl.

When Eddard arrived next to the king he asked: “Robert, do you know the man down there, next to the Hound?”

His monarch looked up from a tankard of wine with drunk-red cheeks.

“The white mealworm over there? Don't you remember? That's Hallyne. He's the head of the prancer... pyromancer's guild. Ah, well, it's been a long time. He was an acolyte under King Aerys when you last met him. He's come here as a represev... representev... – hicks – representative of his guild, and Cersei says he intends to hand over a welcome gift at the end of the feast.”

Lord Stark sighed, and Robert chortled: “I know. A poisoner, if you ask me. You really have to be careful not to wake up in the morning and to find yourself murdered. “Welcome to King's Landing,” is all I can say.”

Eddard moaned inwardly. In order not to get completely depressive he looked around for his girls. Sansa was sitting there in one of her fine dresses and with a southron hairstyle, and appeared to be very fascinated by court life. Good. After the loss of her wolf it was about time for her to get her appetite for life back. Septa Mordane had also tried to make Arya presentable, but failed spectacularly to do so once more: his younger daughter's hair was already ruffled again, and her dress was crinkled. Lord Stark smiled. He loved unruly Arya so much! She always reminded him of his dead sister Lyanna.

“Some wine, my lord?” a servant, who was carrying a decanter of Dornish Red, asked him from behind.

“No, I'd prefer some ale, watered down,” Lord Stark answered gloomily. After all, at least one man needed to have his wits about him in this viper's nest.

Botch! A big hand landed on his back with a hollow smack.

“Ned, you're such a slowpoke! Watered ale! Has the ice in the north watered down your blood as well? This is your welcome feast. Have fun!” Robert hollered.

At that, Queen Cersei leaned forward and shot his husband a seething look, although she was smiling when she commented in a saccharine voice: “Oh Robert, don't judge him too harshly, if he wants to avoid going on people's nerves with drunk snores.”

The king growled back at her: “Wife, if I need any needling remarks from your side, I'll faithfully turn to you, but otherwise, you'll keep your stupid mouth as shut up as you keep your cunt for me. Understood?”

Queen Cersei rose, obviously with the intention to leave, but the king pulled her down again and rumbled: “You'll sit and eat and drink! Order from your husband AND your king. You won't besmirch Ned's welcome feast by running away.”

 

The Warden of the North didn't have any appetite left – and he had had little to begin with. Listlessly, he ate some spoonfuls of clam chowder, shoved peas in saffron sauce across his plate and just nibbled on some peacock fillets in plum sauce.

Sansa, her septa and Arya, however, were eating with a healthy appetite. Arya was wolfing down her food at top speed and in the most un-ladylike manner, Lord Stark observed. Sansa delighted in salmon and little cheese dumplings, and later in cinnamon buns. What a refined tooth his elder daughter had! She was such a sweet thing.

The more Eddard got to know Prince Joffrey, the more he was of the impression that his Sansa was actually too good for the match that had been arranged between them. Robert's son was as good-looking, but also as vicious as his mother. Yet, Sansa was so smitten with the boy that she seemed perfectly happy to marry him. Probably she would have a positive influence on the lad. Lord Stark tried to cling to that hope.

The prince was sitting on Cersei's other side and was drinking some wine, too.

“Already taking up after his father?” Eddard couldn't help but ask himself.

But then again, Sansa and Arya – and even their septa – were sipping on a glass of Dornish Red as well. Lord Stark sighed. He was getting entirely too irritable... and this was only the beginning of his long-term stay in the capital!

He tried to get a grip on himself again and looked around. The musicians were playing a merry tune, Lord Baelish, who was sitting directly under the days seemed to be having a good time and was trying shamelessly to flirt with Septa Mordane, who was as red as a cooked lobster by now (which was no wonder, because the Mockingbird, who was the owner of the brothel where Ned had met his Cat the day before, was clearly telling ribald jokes), little Prince Tommen was prattling about his cats further down the dais, Cersei was rubbing Robert's cock under the table...

 

The Warden of the North froze.

WHAT!?!?

It took him every ounce of mental willpower not to stare like an idiot.

He didn't see what he was seeing, did he?

But... there was no denying things. And the bulge in Robert's breeches showed clearly that he approved of his wife's caresses.

Lord Stark pinched his nose. Had he fallen asleep and was dreaming rubbish? Had he missed something important?

The last thing that had happened between the king and his queen had been a very nasty argument, and Robert had complained about Cersei's frigidity (not for the first time, by the way)... and now, they were sitting there next to each other involved in some avid pant jousting.

Eddard couldn't believe it. Damn it, what was going on? The spouses were suddenly even smiling at each other, something he had never seen between them before. By the old gods and the new!

 

Since Lord Stark didn't know what else to do he turned to his daughters again. Sansa's eyes were already gleaming a little hazily, and so were her septa's and Arya's. They seemed to have had more wine than was good for them. Moreover, Eddard didn't want them to witness the scandalous behaviour of their monarch and his queen.

“Girls, I think it's high time you retire to your chambers,” Lord Stark announced sternly.

On the other side of the table, there was a drunk sneer from Prince Joffrey: “Yes, that's a very good idea, Lord Stark. Getting too late for little girls. – Hound! Get up and walk the ladies back to the Hand's tower and to their chambers. I want my fiancée to be safe.”

Sansa tensed and blushed, but nodded meekly while Arya pouted and didn't want to leave the feast, but finally, she had to give in and to obey her father.

Sandor Clegane seemed to have had his share of Dornish Red as well when he was approaching the dais with a slight sway. Eddard wasn't happy that the burned ruffian would see the girls home, but the prince had ordered it, and likely the man wanted to be back soon anyway to get even drunker, so he wouldn't linger and unnerve his daughters.

 

When the girls had left, Lord Stark heard the queen murmur at her husband that retiring was indeed a good idea. Before the king could answer, however, Hallyne the pyromancer stood up.

“Your Grace, as the representative of the pyromancer's guild, I have prepared a welcome gift for the new Hand of the king. Am I allowed to hand it over?”

Robert waved his hand dismissively – his focus clearly being elsewhere – and stated: “Do as you please!”

Hallyne cleared his throat and addressed a servant: “Roll over the barrel from the wall at the back of the hall.”

A few moments later, the servant – a spindly, bald man – was back. Without the barrel, but with a clearly embarrassed expression on his face.

“Erm. My lord... it looks as if there has been a misunderstanding. The gift... it seems to have been mistaken for a barrel of Dornish Red, and the contents have been... served during the meal.”

 

If Lord Stark had already thought Hallyne to be pallid before he had been wrong. In fact, Eddard came to the conclusion now that he had never seen a face as deadly white as the pyromancer's face in this moment.

The situation became really creepy, however, when Hallyne stuttered: “The people have all drunk...? They ALL...? By the Seven, that's a catastrophe!”

Lord Stark's heart missed a beat and turned to ice. He himself had only drunk beer, but... the king! SANSA! ARYA!


	2. Chapter 2

“Speak, Pyromancer! What kind of liquid is this?” Eddard shouted after having risen to his feet.

Hallyne wanted to sink into a hole, that much was clear, but the Warden of the North couldn't care less about the man's emotional state.

“Lord Hand,” he started hesitantly, “this is a magic potion.”

“What kind of magic potion? Do I have to tear each sentence from your lips individually?”

Hallyne made some helpless gestures.

“It is some kind of a... changing potion. Whoever drinks it will undergo some personality changes.”

“What!? What do you mean with “personality changes”? Most of the people here in this hall have drunk from this potion. So what does it do?”

The pyromancer was squirming with shame when he answered: “That's different from person to person. A gentle man may turn cruel and the other way round. A brave man can turn into a coward and vice versa. Sometimes, only a part of the character changes, sometimes, the individual will be completely altered. It is a brand new invention, so the effects haven't been studied in detail yet.”

Eddard Stark's lips moved in despair, mouthing a second time: “Sansa. Arya.”

The next moment, the Warden of the North rushed off, sword in hand and panicking.

What had happened to his little girls?

 

He found Arya first. She was in her room and looking out of her window, over the roofs of the Red Keep.

“Arya! My girl! Are you all right?”

His daughter turned around and looked at him with surprised eyes.

“Yes, of course, father, what is it?”

“Do you feel any different since you've drunk the wine?”

Arya was even more confused now and answered: “No, father. Should I?”

Lord Stark breathed in and out.

“I'm relieved if you don't.”

Arya smiled and hugged him, so Eddard grinned and ruffled her hair affectionately.

“Fine. Good night then. I'll go and see after Sansa now, if she's all right as well.”

He turned around and prepared to leave when Arya said gently: “Good night, father. May the gods be with you.”

The Warden of the North stopped mid-stride and looked back at his daughter. Arya was still smiling, though she turned a little confused on seeing him react thus and frowned.

“What is it, father?”

“Nothing. Nothing,” Lord Stark murmured, nodded and left.

 

Next, he climbed the stairs to Sansa's room.

And even from outside the door he could already hear Sandor Clegane's totally upset raspy voice: “My lady! This is not... You can't...”

The Hound relapsed into silence, but there were still some strange non-verbal noises to be heard.

Lord Stark's hair stood on end. What on earth was going on in there that Prince Joffrey's sworn shield, a ruthless killer, sounded close to being... terrified?

With trembling hands he pushed the door open – and his jaw dropped in shock.

 

Sansa was clinging to Sandor Clegane, the man's tunic was wide open at the neck so that his dark chest hair could be seen, his daughter's arms were around the same neck, and she was sticking her tongue into... oh, by the old gods!

Under different circumstances, Lord Stark would have laughed to see the Hound with his eyes wide open in shock, though honestly, he'd never be interested to watch the man getting kissed, not under any circumstances. Now, however, Eddard was no less than horrified and felt as if a carpet had been torn away from under his feet. The facial expression of the two people in front of him left no question as to who had initiated this scene and who had been paralysed by it. Sadly, it was his daughter who was the culprit and Sandor Clegane the one who was the victim. All of a sudden, Lord Stark seemed to have entered a topsy-turvy parallel world.

“Sansa! Stop doing that! What are you thinking!? You're behaving like a wanton tavern wench!” Eddard finally managed to grind out.

His daughter looked around and sank slowly back from the Hound's neck to the ground – but then, she grasped the man's big paw, her eyes were sparkling, and without being ashamed she twittered: “Father! You know Sandor Clegane, don't you? Father, he's a wonderful man! A real Florian! I don't know how I couldn't see that earlier. Please, I can't marry Prince Joffrey any more. I want to marry Sandor. We're meant for each other!”

The warrior in question positively looked is if he didn't have a clue what had hit him.

“Lord Stark, I swear I don't know what's going on with your d...” he tried to explain, but an appalled Eddard cut in: “I fear I do have a very exact idea of what's going on, Clegane.”

“Lord Stark?” the Hound asked and looked at his hairy hand in Sansa's small one as if it wasn't a part of his body any more.

“Yes? I can marry him?” Sansa chimed hopefully.

“I've said no such thing!” Lord Stark chided. “Be quiet and listen: I've just learned that the wine down in the hall was actually a magical potion that can change a person. Sansa, I'm convinced you're under the influence of this potion.”

His daughter only beamed back at him and replied: “Oh, how wonderful! Who knows, if we'd found out we're in love without this magical drink! I'm so grateful!”

The Warden of the North palmed his face.

“Clegane! What about you?” he asked. “Do you feel any different?”

The scarred man bethought himself and finally answered: “I'm not angry.”

“You're not what?”

“I'm not angry. I don't feel aggressive. Weird.”

“Hahaha, of course he doesn't. I mean – we're in love, father!”

Lord Stark groaned. No, no, no! This was definitely too much for his brain. Had Old Nan ever come up with a horror story like this he might have confined her to the kitchen wing so as not to influence his children any more. Unfortunately, the events unfolding in front of his eyes were a horror story come true.

“Clegane. Nearly everyone in the hall has drunk that magical wine. I think I could already detect its influence on the king and the queen. Let's go back down and see, if the pyromancer, who is responsible for this mess, has got a solution to the problem.”

The Hound nodded and wanted to know: “Have you drunk from the potion as well, my lord?”

“No, I had only beer. And I'm very grateful for that. Let's go now.”

While they were clambering down the steps again Sansa was hanging on the Hound's arm and behaving as if she were treading on clouds, so elated was she; she even tried to press her head onto the man's shoulder again and again. Moreover, she was chirping loving words at Sandor Clegane ceaselessly like an overexcited little bird. Lord Stark felt sick.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Down in the hall Jaime Lannister was coming in their direction with stiff strides. As a member of the King's Guard he had been on duty during the feast and had stood at the other end of the room. Now, he looked as if he had seen a ghost. Considering the recent developments this reaction was only to be expected.

“What's the situation like, Ser Jaime?”

“I fear you missed Lord Varys bawling wholeheartedly “The Bear and the Maiden Fair”,” the golden-haired man tried to quip, but to Lord Stark's surprise there was an unmistakable expression of pain in the Kingslayer's eyes.

“So you drank from the magical potion as well, Ser Jaime?”

“Me? No! I was on duty, and even if I hadn't – I drink Arbor gold when it comes to wine. Although I now wish I had had a bit of this mock Dornish red now. But back to our problem here. As you will notice most people have already left.”

The Warden of the North looked around and raised his eyebrows. It was true. Within a few minutes most courtiers had left the feast. In one corner, there was a treacherous blanket that covered a larger form... or rather a body.

Lord Stark nodded in the according direction with his chin and asked: “Who's that?”

Jaime Lannister swallowed and replied in a hoarse voice: “I fear that's Hallyne. The seven hells roast his arse! Do you know what happened? Do you? The pyromancer declared that the effects of his drink are irreversible! That there is no antidote! And then – poff! – the man collapsed. Heart attack, the maester says.”

“And where are the king and the queen now?” Eddard inquired.

The Kingslayer's lips started to quiver, and he barely managed to whisper back: “They retired after the pyromancer's death.”

Lord Stark was incredulous.

“What!? But... but... things have to be done! We need to...”

He didn't get any further. Ser Jaime had turned to the next wall; he was madly thrashing at it with his mailed fists, and he was... sobbing!

Eddard didn't have the faintest idea what could have influenced the arrogant Kingslayer to weep in public, even less so without the changes brought on by a magical potion. Yet, it was clear that this man was so much beside himself that he couldn't carry out any orders.

Thus, Lord Stark turned around to the Hound, who was still standing a little behind him with Sansa in tow.

“Clegane! I think I need you now. Go, get someone from the pyromancer's guild! They have to be informed about Hallyne's demise, and I have to talk to them. I'll order them to find a remedy for this damned potion. That'll also be in Prince Joffrey's best interest as he's drunk from the stuff, too.”

“Oh Sandor, my love, that's fantastic, and while we're on the way to the guild you can show me King's Landing by night. That will be sooo romantic!”

“No, daughter you'll stay here!” Lord Stark interrupted Sansa.

“But father!” the girl pouted as if Arya had been forced to wear a dress.

Fortunately, the Hound supported him and explained: “Lady Sansa, something very weird has happened tonight, and many people have been affected by it. Moreover, King's Landing isn't romantic at all even at the best of times; at night, it's downright dangerous. Your Lord Father is right; you should stay here.”

Sansa pouted even more, and when Sandor Clegane left she turned the harmless process into an exaggerated farewell scene. Lord Stark palmed his face again in shame. He could already imagine how the people would gossip about this.

“What do I do, if there's really no remedy for this magic potion?” he had to ask himself for the first time. “I cannot let Sansa marry the Hound! Prince Joffrey, Cersei and Robert will tear me to pieces and Cat will feed my remains to the wolves, if I allow my daughter to marry Sandor Clegane!”


	4. Chapter 4

 

The whole affair turned out even worse than Eddard had assumed. When another representative arrived at court he explained that Hallyne had seemingly not written down any reports about his latest developments – or things had been so secretive that any notes had been destroyed or so well-hidden that they could not be found. Moreover, the master pyromancer had been the only one in the guild who had specialised on potions of any kind and reached this level of profession.

Since it was already very late – or rather very early – Sandor had sat down on Eddard's sofa in the solar and fallen asleep – with Sansa on his lap, her cheek against the man's collarbone, and slumbering as well. The Hound had wrapped an arm around her middle, and he didn't look like Sansa's victim any more. In fact, he was totally peaceful and relaxed, and there was no trace of the prince's ferocious Dog. Under completely different circumstances (especially with different persons) the embrace would have even looked sweet.

Lord Stark was severely tempted to tear his hair.

 

_____________________________________________

The next morning showed the full scope of the potion's consequences. When the Warden of the North walked to the room of the Small Council he came across Arya in the same rumpled dress she had worn on the previous evening.

Eddard patted her, yawned and asked: “Already up so early?”

His daughter nodded vigorously and commented: “I'm coming back from morning mass.”

“You're what?”

“Well... coming from morning mass. The septon talked about the strength of the Smith. It was very interesting. His words reminded me of Mikken in Winterfell. I'm only wondering where Septa Mordane is. I didn't meet her at the sept; that's strange.”

Lord Stark furrowed his brow.

Both aspects puzzled him: Arya's sudden interest in religion as well as her septa's absence told him that quite a bit was amiss here. Normally, it had always been his elder daughter who was the pious one and Arya had only shown – if at all – some interest in the old gods.

“Did Sansa attend mass, too?”

Arya frowned and replied: “Yes, she was there with this disgusting Hound. He looked rather unhappy in the sept. Why on earth were they there together?”

Eddard sighed and admitted sarcastically: “Sansa has developed a soft spot for the man. The way I see it they're already training for the service of their wedding. Especially your sister.”

Arya breathed in shock: “Mother have mercy! Is that because of yesterday's magic wine? I heard people talk about it.”

“I fear you're right, daughter. And I'm feeling as miserable about this special development as you. And now I have to go. The Small Council is waiting.”

Arya gave him another kiss... and a blessing. It was so weird. Her changes appeared to be positive at first sight, there was nothing to say against being religious – and yet, she didn't feel like his unruly daughter any more, and Eddard thought he had lost something precious. With another sigh, Lord Stark continued his way down the corridor.

Suddenly, the door of an unknown chamber opened and he heard a female giggle. Puzzled, he looked up. He knew that voice. Surely this wasn't...?

The open, greying hair in soft, short curls, still a little messy, the fancy violet dress with glistening baby pearls on it, the shoes with heels, the visible cleavage... what the heck was going on here? If not for her strong features and the thin lips he wouldn't have recognised Septa Mordane.

“Lord Stark!” the woman addressed him, blushed and smiled in a radiant way she never had before.

The woman in front of him had changed completely!

“Septa Mordane!?”

“Lord Stark, well, I guess it's good that we're meeting right away. I think... erm... Lord Stark, I have to quit my work in your household. The order as well. Things are different now, as you can see.”

The only thing thunderstruck Eddard managed to utter was: “Obviously.”

Suddenly, there was a friendly voice on the other side of the door to be heard – a voice which the Warden of the North could recognise as well.

“Aaah, Lord Stark! On your way to the Small Council as well? Fine! We can walk together.”

While Septa... no, just Mordane was bowing reverently and taking her leave a man appeared in the door. Silk in plum colour, very expensive, as usual, and a silver mockingbird on the lapel. Lord Baelish stroked his goatee in the contented manner of a man who had had a paramour all night.

Eddard gaped like a carp.

“You? And Septa... Mordane?”

The man nicknamed “Littlefinger” grinned triumphantly and retorted: “Why not? The ripe fruit is the sweetest, don't you know? I thought you would, being married to dear Cat as you are. But why am I talking of your wife when I could relish the mind-blowing memories of...”

“I don't need any details, Baelish!” Lord Stark cut in.

The little man bowed, but kept on grinning like a lovesick fool. Eddard had never seen him so – how could he put it? – emotionally shaken.

“What does S... Mordane intend to do now when she leaves her order?”

The Mockingbird waved his manicured hand and answered: “We're still thinking about it. Of course, I can't keep the brothels, and trading with weapons as another lucrative business is out of the question with Mordane as well, but we'll find something. Perhaps an investment agency for upstart workshops and insurances for long-distance traders.

Lord Stark was surprised: “You want to stay together?”

Littlefinger was put out: “Why, yes, of course! I mean, I took her maidenhood last night, and I want to try out...”

Eddard turned around, grabbed the man's elegant doublet and pressed him against the corridor wall, hissing: “I said “no details”! Which part didn't you understand!? And you will apologise me, but in contrast to you I had a very stressful and unnerving night, and I'm not in the mood for small talk.”

Lord Baelish held up his hands in an appeasing manner – though his words didn't help Lord Stark to calm down: “All right, all right! I momentarily forgot you didn't drink any “wine” yesterday, and that you're still the sour, boring man you were before.”

Up in arms as he was, Eddard frothed: “One more word from you and you'll find out that you've forgotten one of my permanent traits: the ability to kill!”

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

The meeting of the Small Council was as awkward as one could expect under the given circumstances. Baelish and Lord Stark were the first ones to appear. A moment later, the entrance door flapped open again and Lord Varys marched in. It was a small consolation for Eddard that the Mockingbird gaped at the eunuch as much as he did himself.

Lord Varys was wearing a tartan tunic with rolled-up sleeves, breeches and riding boots. Moreover, he had a toothpick between his lips and burped casually on entering.

“Hi-ho,” he greeted them, very much at ease with himself.

“Lord Varys? How are you feeling today?” Lord Stark asked since he lacked any more intelligent comment in that situation.

“Splendid, splendid, Lord Hand. Ah, Littlefinger, already here? How are you, mate? Fit as a fiddle?”

Lord Baelish stroked his goatee in an effort to come to terms with the new appearance and behaviour of the Master of the Whispers while the Warden of the North was asking himself which version of the Spider he liked less... and couldn't decide.

Next came Maester Pycelle. He looked harmless enough at first sight, but when they started to talk the old man was behaving like a teenage girl and giggling all the time.

WHAM! And the door burst open again.

Robert and Cersei entered, holding hands and smiling jovially.

Eddard goggled.

Robert had shaven his face and looked years younger. There were no wine blotches on his clothes, he appeared to be exceedingly focused for once and... what was that? A sandalwood scent entered Lord Stark's nose. Perfume? Robert was using perfume!?

“Right, good morning, gentlemen, let's talk about the agenda for today,” the king boomed as if presiding over the Small Council was his most interesting duty.

He went on: “In the light of yesterday's surprising developments we have to talk about a few changes. Cersei and I have discussed a lot, haven't we, darling?”

“Yes, love,” the Queen affirmed with a warm smile.

“Right. The first thing is that we'll remove Ser Jaime from his position in the King's Guard and send him away from the capital. We'll find him a wife. From what I've heard from Renly the heiress of Tarth is a member of his troops. Kind of a warrior woman. Probably just the right one for a fighter like Ser Jaime.”

Cersei nodded and stroked the king's hand affectionately.

“Ned, and now we must talk as well. Joffrey – he has changed, too, you see. He has uttered the wish to travel the Free Cities and to become a maester in Oldtown afterwards. He feels he's not made for kingship and rather wants to become a learned man now. So I fear we have to end the betrothal with Sansa. I'm very sorry for that, but from what I've heard your daughter has developed... a new interest as well.”

Lord Stark blushed and the king clapped him on the back: “Oh Ned, don't be such a fusspot! Yes, I know your future son-in-law isn't from a very noble background, but I thought that that isn't so important in the north, and that it rather counts amongst the northerners what you do and whether you're strong. Don't pee yourself Ned, your daughter's choice has got my blessing.”

There were some subdued chuckles at the table, and Maester Pycelle even went as far as uttering “woof, woof” before bursting into giggles again.

Lord Stark banged his fist on the table and rumbled: “Right, so then the betrothal is ended, but I haven't given my consent to any other marriage for my daughter, and her future wedding isn't of any importance in this meeting!”

Cersei reached over and patted his hand.

“Please, Lord Stark, don't be cross. We may be laughing a little because of the... most unusual pairing, but there's no escaping when love strikes...”

She winked at her husband, and Robert kissed her brow.

Next, the king declared: “There are some more things. I want to have Edric Storm in the capital. I mean, I'm his goddamned father, and he barely knows my face. And I'll legitimise two more bastards of mine. Three bastards for three bastards, I think that's only fair.”

Eddard didn't have a clue what his friend was talking about. And what was even more confusing was that Cersei didn't spit fire. Instead, she just sighed as if she had some deeper understanding of the matter.

It was then that Lord Baelish spoke up: “Do you have any... specific children in mind that should be legitimised?”

The king wrinkled his brow and mused: “Don't know. Hm, let's see. Perhaps a young one and an elder one? I think there's a baby in one of your establishments. Oh, and I think I've heard of a smith's apprentice in the Street of Steel. If I'm not mistaken Lord Arryn had taken care of his education.”

Lord Stark felt a little dizzy from all the changes and developments he was being exposed to.

He dared to ask: “What about the magic potion? Shouldn't we order the pyromancer's guild to do some research and to find a remedy?”

Robert was shocked: “For heaven's sake, no! Just in case you haven't noticed – the people are all very happy with the changes in their lives, from what I've heard. No, no, it's not necessary to change a thing. And I think we've got more important problems anyway. Tell me – how deeply are the Seven Kingdoms indebted?”

On hearing the sum the king clicked his tongue, shook his head and commented: “We've got to do something about it! Really Ned, this is horrible – and I didn't care at all. Damn, I knew I wasn't a good king, but this... Gentlemen, I want to have a plan of action to improve the financial situation within seven days. I hope I've made myself clear. And now I'm off to the training yard. Got to do something against my love handles. And Cersei, bring Tommen, too, he needs to practise with his father. Ned, will you come along as well? You look as if you could need some fresh air.”

Eddard nodded helplessly.

“Yes. Yes. Maybe you're right. I just need to go to my solar for a moment. I'll meet you in the yard.”

Lord Stark knew that his wife was still in town. Well-hidden. He needed to see her, needed to meet her. Needed one person who was still the same. A person he loved.

Barely fifteen minutes later he watched a messenger dash down the stairs of the Tower of the Hand, a written parchment in his hand.


	6. Chapter 6

 

On his way to the training yard Lord Stark came across the Hound. For once he seemed to be alone.

 

Ned looked here and there and commented: “Don't tell me you managed to get away from my daughter, Clegane.”

 

The scarred warrior looked suddenly very uncomfortable and informed Eddard: “Ah... she's having a bath, Lord Stark.”

 

The Warden of the North looked skywards and retorted in a sarcastic tone: “I guess I must be grateful then that she's not already intent on bathing with you.”

 

The Hound's left half of his face flushed as red as the scarred right one, he showed a sudden interest in a speck on the wall, and he mumbled: “Erm, well... I think I've tknSnssmdhd.”

 

“What is it? Speak up, man!”

 

Sandor Clegane breathed in and out.

 

And he rasped: “I fear I've taken Sansa's maidenhood.”

 

“WHAT!?”

 

Lord Stark was too shocked to even attack and to beat the Hound to mush right away.

 

Sandor Clegane started to explain hurriedly: “Well, you've seen her naïve enthusiasm, haven't you, and normally, I have a light sleep, but last night I was completely trashed, and when I woke up on the sofa Sansa was already halfway into the deed, if you know what I mean, and from the way she acted it was rather as if I was losing my maidenhood, not the other way round, I mean... I didn't know how to react, because it's not as if women were lining up to have a go with me, you see... bloody seven hells!”

 

The man looked like a dog with huge eyes, who had stolen the best tenderloins from the table and who was awaiting the master's beating, accepting the inevitable.

 

Lord Stark felt as if he were standing beside himself all of a sudden.

 

He heard himself declare in a dead voice: “I'd like to be a woman now. It would be a good moment to faint. Well, I'm not. And I was on the way to the training pit. It looks as if I've just found myself a sparring partner. To be sure I'll give you the good advice not to really strike back.”

 

An hour later, the Hound had three long cuts, a sprained left hand, a bruised leg and two broken ribs, according to Maester Pycelle.

 

 

 

On his way into the city, Lord Stark felt exhausted – dog tired, literally –, but not really much better. He had tried to confront Sansa with her outrageous behaviour. To no avail. His daughter had just freaked out when she had learned that Sandor Clegane had been hurt during the training, and she had berated her own father like a fishmonger's wife. Before turning on her heels, leaving him behind like a pillar of salt and running to the healing quarters with tears in her eyes.

 

While Eddard was trudging down the crowded Street of the Sister his head was pounding, and he felt like vomiting into the – already overflowing – gutter.

 

What should he do now? What?

 

Sandor Clegane was by all means an inadequate marriage candidate for Sansa. Too low-born. A ruthless killer. A crude man in every respect.

 

The problem was: from the way it looked Sansa wouldn't take anyone else any more – and what was more: no-one else would take her any more. It wasn't only the fact that she had lost her maidenhood. No, she was running around and making her magic-induced feelings for the Hound public. Robert had told him during the training that she had even asked him with beaming eyes, if His Grace knew any good puppies' names! Gods, what a shame!

 

And now, he was going to meet his wife. He'd have to answer her for his failure to keep their daughters safe.

 

 

 

“Aaaah! Oh yessss! Aaaah!”

 

The whore in in the adjoining room was clearly doing her best to pleasure her customer, and the squeaking bed made Eddard feel as if his brain was being sawed into pieces while waiting for his wife.

 

Finally, the door opened and Catelyn entered with questioning eyes.

 

It was in this moment that the last remains of his self-control gave in.

 

“Catelyn! Oh, my wife! Oh, my love!”

 

With two strides he was at her side and crushed her to his chest.

 

“Your husband is such an oaf! Such an oaf! I should have never come here! I love you! I can't be without you!”

 

“Sshhtsshht,” Catelyn tried to soothe him, completely at a loss about his outburst.

 

Lord Stark, however, wasn't in the mood for calming down; he was rather heating up. Hungrily, he kissed his wife. Somehow they were suddenly tumbling towards the bed in the room. Gods, how he needed his Cat, Eddard realised. And slowly, but surely she started to react to his sudden passion. For the next three hours an insatiable Warden of the North was busy to demonstrate his wife just how much he actually needed and desired her.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

When a rather plucked-looking Eddard arrived back at the castle he met a blase Petyr Baelish, who credited him with his smuggest grin.

“Oof, the Lord Hand looks a little upset, if I may say so. What's happened with dear Cat? Isn't my lodging suiting her... needs?”

The Warden of the North patted the horse's neck, gave the steed an apple, glowered at the Mockingbird and grumbled: “Do you always have to dive below certain level, Baelish? And my wife and me, we've just had a little row, that's it. I don't own you any explanation, so better leave me in peace now.”

“Aaaahmhm, a quarrel, I see. For your sake I hope you had her before then. Any more bottled-up energy on your side would be counterproductive for your brain capacity.”

A moment later, Petyr Baelish trundled around on his own axis with a powerful angular momentum – from a blow that had come out of nowhere, followed by a dark, raspy moan.

“Clegane, that was my part,” Eddard scolded a rather heavily-bandaged Hound.

“Can't helping being a dog in the manger. And if my strike wasn't enough, feel free to have your own try. I'm not really aggressive any more these days, but someone insulting Sansa's parents – that's an exception to the new rule.”

The little man with the goatee peeped up at the Hound dizzily, rubbed his chin, looked from him to Lord Stark, mumbled in a sniffy way something like: “Dog becomes lapdog, and literally so, but dog does not eat direwolf...,” and next, he hobbled away.

Sandor Clegane wanted to go after the Mockingbird with murder in his eyes, but the Warden of the North only grabbed the scarred warrior, who was limping after their earlier fight and spat: “I will not allow another scene. You've done more than enough for the day.”

 

“Sandor! Sandor! Oh, here you are, my love! And helping father, as it seems! How very honourable of you! You're my hero!”

“Here she's coming again,” Sandor mumbled and submitted to his fate. A few moments later, Sansa was hanging on the man's neck: in public and right in front of her father, as if she couldn't care less who was watching. Well, she really wasn't doing so, and her kiss passionate kiss right onto the half-burned man's mouth left no question about her attitude.

As Lord Stark noticed, the Hound tried not to look intrigued in his presence, but failed. Sandor Clegane wasn't nearly as much of a victim any more as he pretended to be.

Eddard was desperate. When Catelyn had heard of her elder daughter's changes she had been all cold, reproaching fury. A real Tully with her piercing, blue eyes and the red hair.

 

“How, in the name of the Seven, could you let that happen, Ned? This is a shame for the whole family. You know me, I'm not making any careless accusations. I didn't say a thing when you brought home that bastard of yours, I accepted him in Winterfell, even though it hurt me every single day, did you know that? But the HOUND!? He is one of the most disgusting killers in the realm. And low-born. His grandsire was a humble kennelmaster, from everything I've heard. A kennelmaster! Can you believe it? And this Sandor Clegane man isn't much above the animal in his sigil. And you allowed him to put his dirty, bloodied hands on Sansa? You should have separated them at once! You shouldn't have let her drink any wine. At all. Oh, my poor little misguided lamb! Ned, you have failed. The Seven help me, I love you, but you've failed miserably, and I don't know how I could possibly look up to you in the future. At least now you have to do the right thing. You cannot allow Sansa to marry this man, can you?”

 

Eddard Stark felt wretched, deflated. Never had he been so insecure about a decision. Winterfell and the lordship? He hadn't wanted it. It had been meant for his brother Brandon. The same was true for his wife, no matter how much he had come to love Catelyn. Jon Snow's education? The boy had been a duty, a task to fulfil as well. Him becoming Lord Robert's Hand? He had wanted nothing less. And all these decisions had been made for him.

Now, however, he had to form an opinion and to come to a very important conclusion himself. His daughter Sansa and Sandor Clegane. Was it an option? Eddard could understand his wife's hostility with regard to a possible match, oh yes, he could.

But then, he saw the Hound and Sansa look into each other's eyes while kissing. They had forgotten the world around them. Even him. And there was something in their expression... something... No, this love was magic-induced, true enough, but love it was nevertheless. This had nothing to do with a girl's infatuation with a posh prince.

Eddard sighed and felt hollow. Sansa wouldn't be happy with another man any more, and yes, he had a duty towards the north... but he was also a father, and he loved his daughter too much. It was simply impossible tear her away from someone she loved and force her into an unhappy alliance instead – and unhappy it would necessarily be with her heart being reserved for this tall warrior. No, Lord Stark didn't like Sandor Clegane. Not at all. But it wasn't him who had to marry the man. And Robert – who was the king after all – had encouraged the relationship.

 

“BAH! Holy Maiden, this is disgusting! Father, don't you see that? Damn, stop them! – Sansa, how can you kiss this man? Do you think his ugly tonsils need a washing? That murderer! He's the Stranger made flesh! He'll end up in the seven hells!”

Lord Stark groaned.

Apart from his wife there was another female Stark who'd condemn him for allowing Sansa and Sandor Clegane to marry.

 

“Arya, you're so self-righteous!” Sansa chided her little sister. “Didn't you hear a word in the sept about magnanimity? About love and charity and forgiveness?”

“Was the Hound magnanimous when he rode down Mycah?”

Eddard rolled up his eyes. Not again! If the magic potion changed people's characters – why in the name of the weeping Heart Tree couldn't it have stopped Sansa's and Arya's fights? This was all too much for him. He only wanted to leave the girls to themselves at the moment. He had had enough of all of it.

When Eddard had a last look at his younger daughter, he noticed that she was holding something in her hand. A figure. Had she taken to playing with dolls after all? But no. She was holding a figure of the Smith. Gods, her piousness was getting more intensive! Perhaps angry Catelyn could be soothed with Arya's development. Who knew.

But Smith... Smith... Somewhere a bell rang in his head. Wasn't there something he still had to do?

 

A moment later, he remembered: he still had to fetch Robert's bastard from the Street of Steel in King's Landing. Well, if that wasn't a welcome opportunity to get away from these days' madness again for a few moments. No-one who had changed in the city, no-one who'd confront him with his alleged shortcomings, plus he'd get the chance to look at some nice weapons, to have a chat about the quality of a sword or other, and to purchase an item or two. Yes, a good idea. Just what his frayed nerves needed, he had to admit.

Not interfering much with Sansa's and Arya's ongoing quarrelling, he turned towards the Hound. After all, he had to get to know this man a little more, if he was to become his goodson.

“Clegane, I guess you can't ride in your present state? I've got to do a task in the Street of Steel, and I could use some company.”

The tall man's eyes glittered when he shot the two snapping female fighter's a glance.

He replied: “I'd very much prefer to have a short excursion, to be honest, Lord Stark, but I can't get onto horseback with my various... ailments.”

“I thought as much. Well, for my task I'll need a cart anyway, and two or three of my men. You could come along on the cart.”

“... and your stitches are still crooked, not even a magic potion could change that, Arya, so...”

“You and your stupid needlework, you don't...”

“Lord Stark, and if you have to bloody tape me to the cart, please make it possible I'll be able to come along!”

The Warden of the North shot a glance at the clamouring girls and sighed: “Yes, I understand your point exactly. Come along.”

 

The Master of the Whispers had provided Eddard with all the information he needed while chewing on his toothpick and rubbing his bald head: “Yeah, it's this dude named Tobho Mott who took in the lad. Finest smith in town, that's what they say. Kinda nice fella, the boy, from what my birdies tell me, quite the image of his sire, though a tad grumpy in comparison. Will be thrilling to meet this Gendry Waters. Cheerio and have a good time getting him to the Keep.”

 

Lord Stark couldn't be fast enough to get away from the castle and its weird inhabitants. When he was heading back towards the yard where his men and Sandor were surely waiting with a cart and the horses he chanced upon Sansa, who seemed to finally have left Arya behind... and his elder daughter was chatting with Prince Joffrey animatedly. The young man was holding a precious-looking book in his arms.

He was just explaining to his former fiancée: “Yes, this is one of the finest existing copies. It's from my uncle's private library. I feel he wouldn't object me to read it while he's still pissing off the Wall in the north.”

“Oh, it's really such a fine specimen,” Sansa chirped, hugged the prince and went on, “and Joffrey, by the way, I'm truly sorry this marriage between us wasn't meant to be. But I promise we can always be friends.”

Lord Stark shuddered when he overheard these words. That female killer sentence!

To his surprise, Joffrey shrugged and answered: “If you're still interested in this correspondence about magical beasts such as direwolves and dragons once I've arrived in Oldtown to become a maester you're welcome to send me a raven. – Oh, Lord Stark.”

The boy had noticed him and acknowledged him with a curt nod of his head.

Uh. This was all getting too cheesy for Eddard, so he just nodded back, told Sansa he'd be away with Clegane for a while, and no, no, no, she couldn't come along, NO, for the sake of the old gods!

When Lord Stark and his men rumpled and trotted out of the Red Keep at long last he felt as if an ice-block from the Wall had been lifted off his heart.


	8. Chapter 8

 

Half an hour later, Sandor and Eddard were stooped over a scabbard in one of the many smithies in the Street of Steel. Lord Stark's men were allowed to roam the street freely for the next hour. The King's Hand was intent on relaxing for a moment.

“Fine leather and well seamed together,” Eddard commented.

The Hound shook his head and grunted in pain. Yes, broken ribs are dolorous, there was no denying that.

“No, the colour of the leather is too light; you'd see any speck of blood on it – and the embossed pattern is unnecessary for a tool that is meant to be used for fighting instead of boasting. Look here, this scabbard is better.”

Eddard examined the piece in question and hmmmed his approval.

Next, he stated: “For someone who despises ornaments it's remarkable that you might end up marrying someone as fascinated by frills and decorations of any kind as my daughter.”

The Hound stiffened slightly, but remained quiet, so Lord Stark went on: “Sansa has declared often and loudly that she wants to become your wife, but you have been silent about the subject so far. I'd like to know your point of view, Clegane.”

The scarred warrior cleared his throat and rasped: “Is there anything to tell you? I mean, it's clear as daylight that I'm not worthy of her.”

Eddard drummed his fingers on the scabbard.

“That may be true from a social point of view, but I still want to have an answer from you. Would you want to have her?”

The Hound sniffed and growled: “Which red-blooded man would NOT want to have her, I ask you, Lord Stark?”

The Warden of the North felt a whiff of something he normally didn't cultivate when answering: sarcasm.

“If I'm not sorely mistaken Prince Joffrey does have red blood...”

“Ah, but I was talking of red-blooded MEN.”

“Be careful with your words, Clegane, an enemy of yours might judge them as high treason.”

“I'm just telling the truth, Lord Stark.”

“An enemy might still give your statement a false colour and condemn you as a traitor.”

“Well, you're the expert with regard to that. I don't play the Game of Thrones.”

“You're wrong here now. You entered the game when you started to play “Come into my Castle” with Sansa, Clegane.”

Lord Eddard shoved a sword into the scabbard in his hand to test the quality.

The Hound fell silent again.

Well, he wasn't one to make many words, unlike so many other southron knights and lords. In that respect he'd fit in the north. His looks, the size, the dark hair and the strong features would be suitable as well...

Then: “You sure you didn't have a droplet of that potion, Lord Stark? Could it be that the king spilled a bit of his “wine” across your food while feasting? I never knew you're able of witticisms.”

“Pfft, I'd call it gallows humour. And now tell me: what do you think about Sansa, Clegane?”

“She's the first and only hint in my life that there might be seven heavens after all.”

Lord Stark was astonished. He knew that the Hound had no love for religious topics, which meant that these words from his mouth were the greatest possible praise from a rough man like him. Apart from that, he wasn't like Robert, who had only ever seen and cherished Lyanna's beauty and ignored her strong character. Back at the Red Keep Sandor Clegane had shown that he wasn't blind to Sansa's more... unnerving sides, such as the bickering with her sister. And yet, the Hound had declared some rather strong feelings for her, even if he hadn't used the term “love” itself. That word wasn't necessary, however, not really, not after what Lord Stark had seen and heard already.

Finally, Lord Stark reached a conclusion – one of the most difficult ones in his life.

 

_Rrring._

A little bell was chiming at the entrance door and indicated a potential new customer.

Lord Eddard turned around in reflex to make sure he wasn't in danger... then recognised the knight in front of him and expected a smirk or an arrogant jape from the new man present. One look into the empty face of the Kingslayer, however, told the Warden of the North that Jaime Lannister was too depressed to wag his tongue.

 

“Still in town?” Sandor rasped in the golden-haired man's direction.

“What do you want, Hound? To enjoy watching the queen's twin brother having fallen from grace?” Ser Jaime shot back, his voice all bitterness. “As you can see I haven't left the capital yet, but I'll leave soon enough. I'm just about to buy myself some last... accessories before my trip to Tarth.”

The door bell rang again, indicating another customer, but they didn't pay much attention to the newcomer as the presence of the Kingslayer was interesting enough.

Lord Eddard tried to be diplomatic and not to show his disdain for the man too openly when he asked: “Ah. A last dagger or knife or a sword belt from the capital, I gather?”

Jaime Lannister cocked his head and sighed: “Not quite. I'm looking for a wedding gift. I've heard that the big, ugly cow I'm going to marry is some sort of warrior woman, so I thought she'd appreciate a good sword and a fine sword-belt.”

 

Lord Stark and Sandor Clegane were separated by an outcropping of the counter with many fancy metal and leather articles on display – and suddenly, the Hound nudged the Warden of the North urgently under this counter. Eddard looked up. His eyes grew wide.

The Kingslayer noticed his change, glanced at him in puzzlement for a second... then slumped his shoulders in defeat and murmured in the most fatalistic voice possible: “My future bride isn't standing behind me, is she?”

Sandor Clegane coughed and focused on a shield that was hanging on the wall, so it fell to Lord Stark to voice: “Errm, I don't know Lady Brienne since I've never met her...”

He made a nondescript gesture.

The huge, bland-looking woman, who was looming up behind the Kingslayer, looked at the Lannister man with icy blue eyes and spoke up: “Lord Hand? You're guessing quite rightly with regard to my identity. And Ser Jaime, you needn't fear anything, your future bride is NOT standing behind you – since I won't marry an arrogant peacock like you.”

The Kingslayer palmed his face... but a moment later, a hint of his old sarcasm seemed to flare up when he shot back: “A pea cock is better than no cock, but I can promise you that you could expect even more from me.”

The Maid of Tarth flushed scarlet.

“I don't have to accept this public humiliation. I won't accept this public humiliation. I'll talk to the king. He shall find you another woman. Best another fair-haired one, from all I've heard.”

Lord Stark didn't have a clue what young Lady Brienne was talking about, but the Kingslayer stiffened visibly, and he looked hurt for a split second – before he narrowed his eyes and stared at her provokingly.

“Ah, and I've heard you said you'd only marry a man who could best you in a duel. I surmise the Maid of Tarth is just a wench then, too afraid to fight against a man who would win against her.”

Now, the tall warrior woman was up in arms, and she snarled: “People call you cocky, you know, but they're wrong. You're nothing less than an epitome of exaggerated arrogance!”

Jaime Lannister snorted back: “Arrogant – perhaps. But not exaggerating. I know my fighting prowess and my worth.”

It was then that Sandor Clegane cut in: “Seven bleeding hells, stop blabbering, get out of here into the street and have your damned fight. A good combat cures any blueball effects. Or bluenipp... ah, whatever.”

Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth huffed in sudden joint indignation at the Hound's coarse words, but Lord Stark could still see the wisdom in the Hound's words.

So he stated: “It would be interesting to see the two of you in a sparring combat. Lady Brienne, I'm curious to find out more about your fighting capability. It would be an honour to watch you.”

The Kingslayer bristled at the word “honour”, but the Maid of Tarth pointed with her head in a gesture at the door that could only mean: “Out.”

The Lion needed no further motivation.

Lord Stark and Sandor Clegane followed suit.

Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth were both wearing light armour, so they didn't have to change, and they took up position in the street at once. In no time, the passers-by darted to the side, sensing that there was a fight ahead. On noticing that a huge woman in armour was involved in the affair people started to flock together, to stare and to make their bets. Lord Stark gave them Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime wooden swords he had managed to purchase in the shop in all haste.

 

The Kingslayer was the first to attack, and his movements were so fast and fluent that the eye could barely follow. Thus, he was hit for six when in just as swift a motion Lady Brienne managed to block his advance with her sword. Ser Jaime's eyes grew wide – and not only his. At the same time, the Maid of Tarth looked smug for the tiniest fraction of a second, but the next moment, she was fully concentrated again. The Kingslayer, who had realised that he had a serious opponent, got a grip on himself as well and started another attack.

Next, there was a flurry of motions on both sides, of ducking, of moving here and there, back and forth and sideways. They spun on their heels, pivoted around and clashed again.

The dirt from the street was thrown up in little gusts, the light armour clattered, the air hissed where the swords cut through it, and the combatants hissed as as well in their efforts to bring down the respective adversary. They were starting to sweat – and unbelievable as it was, no-one had won yet. The wooden blades were kissing again and again with thudding smacks.

The crowd around was clapping and stamping their feet and hooting. A spectacle of such perfection was a rare occurrence to watch. The two fighters looked as if they were dancing, and Lord Stark had to admit that the normally unattractive Lady Brienne was radiating fitness, elegance and competence; the mix was utterly fascinating.

Suddenly, the Kingslayer hooked a foot around one of the woman's ankles and sent her reeling backwards. A moment later, her body hit the ground, and she uttered an “Ouufff!” sound. Another second afterwards, and Jaime Lannister was throwing himself upon her, holding her down and pressing his lips straight onto her big mouth, thus stealing a kiss; then, he rose again and laughed impishly.

The spectators cackled and made lewd comments. Even Sandor Clegane was grinning widely at Lord Stark's side.

The Maid of Tarth rubbed her mouth clean frantically and protested: “This wasn't fair! You weren't fair!”

The Kingslayer pressed a hand on his heart in a mock-ingenious gesture and replied: “What!? You expected honourable behaviour from me? My, now this is a surprise. I haven't been considered fair for ages, have I, Lord Hand? Ah, but in love and war everything is allowed, didn't you know?”

There was more clapping and laughter around them.

Brienne got up, her face red from strain and embarrassment, and she stomped away from the scene, not looking back once. The crowd dispersed. Ser Jaime bowed towards Lord Stark, and the Lion was obviously revived from the forceful interlude.

The man said: “Lord Hand, I hope you'll excuse me now. I feel the need to follow a certain wench.”

 

When Ser Jaime had left Eddard Stark turned to the Hound and rumbled: “I guess it's high time to seek out a certain smith's apprentice.”

“You're right, Lord Stark. And by the way – you might be grateful I'm not wooing your daughter in the Lannister fashion, judging from all we've just witnessed”, the Hound commented.

The Warden of the North furrowed his brow and answered: “In that case you'd want to know that I'm just as capable a fighter as the Kingslayer, and you'd have to get past me first, Clegane. Oh, and I'd be watching out for your feet, just so you know.”

The scarred warrior chortled: “I've already gathered as much. – Right. Let's go over there now. That's Tobho Mott's smithy.”

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

They were greeted in a friendly way, which became even friendlier when the Hound indicated he was interested in a good new knife. The man's behaviour became a little more guarded, however, when Eddard told him he wanted to see his apprentice Gendry.

“They all want to see him,” the man mumbled and sent a shop assistant to Sandor Clegane while he himself led the Hand into the smithy. Various fires were blazing, different employed smiths were swinging their hammers and the heat was so great that the air seemed to be liquid. Rivulets of sweat were trickling down everyone's body.

“Boy, come over here!” Tobho Mott bellowed above the clanking sounds.

A tall, serious, already quite muscled youngster came over. His hair was thick and dark, and his features revealed the royal father without any doubt.

“The boy is treated fairly, and he is doing a good job,” the master smith assured Lord Stark and went on: “Gendry, show him your helmet!”

The silent lad left for a moment and came back with a helmet with bulls' horns.

Eddard took it and inspected it.

“This is a very fine piece of work. Have you already thought about the price?” he asked.

At once, Gendry became petulant and answered: “This helmet isn't for selling! It's mine!”

Tobho Mott reacted with abashment and indignation: “Boy! This is the Lord Hand! You can't...”

“Let him be,” Eddard interrupted the man, “it's not so important. We have to discuss other very serious matters, the three of us, and we shouldn't argue about the helmet. Do you have a more... private place where we can talk about these things?”

The smith paled visibly, already fearing a calamitous blow from the world of nobility, which didn't care about the smallfolk.

“I've got a little solar for bookkeeping. Please follow me, my lord.”

It turned out to be a neat little room, as it could be expected by an effective man like Tobho Mott.

“Right,” the Warden of the North started and addressed Gendry: “Do you know who your father is?”

The boy shook his head sullenly: “Nah. Never met him, and me mum never told me 'bout any details.”

“Where's your mother now?”  
“Dead. And has been for a while.”

So Eddard addressed the smith: “Do you know about his parents?”

Tobho Mott shook his head: “He came here with an unknown man in fine clothes, and he paid the sum for Gendry's apprenticeship. That's all I know.”

And likely all the man wanted to know.

Lord Stark nodded.

Next, he coughed and explained: “Well, Gendry... I happen to know who your father is, and he wants to get to know you.”

All of a sudden, the boy grew excited: “My father!? But... who? And how do you...? And he wants...?”

“Shhht,” Lord Stark tried to calm him down and went on: “Master Mott, as you might have guessed in secret Gendry's father is a very important and very noble man. As Gendry is a bastard, the father's choice of caring for him was to make sure he got a good education and that he was brought up by a trustworthy man like you. Indeed, a better man than you could not have been chosen, and you will be rewarded duly. I am here to talk on the father's behalf, actually.”

The smith's eyes grew wide in shocked understanding, but the boy still didn't have a clue, so Lord Stark said softly: “Gendry. Your father is the king. King Robert. And I'm here to ask you to come along to the Red Keep.”

Tobho Mott was so aghast that he gasped and gaped like a codfish on land.

Gendry's eyes were blank for a moment, his brain still refusing the message about his origin.

A few seconds later, something snapped shut within him. He panicked. Spun around on his heels. Ran out. Slammed the door shut.

“Gendry!” a horrified Tobho Mott bellowed.

“Never mind, we'll get him,” Lord Stark murmured and followed the lad swiftly.

Sandor Clegane with his injuries had not been able to grab the boy, but his men in the backstreet of the smithy had been prepared and taken hold of Gendry. Robert's son was really strong already and gave them a hard time trying to fend them off, kicking and pushing and growling. To no avail.

When Eddard arrived the boy gave up, went limp like a ragdoll and started to sob. Lord Stark took the lad into his arms and tried to soothe him as best he could. The Hound was arriving on the scene now as well, limping.

“That's him? Was a bit much for him to digest, I gather,” he rasped.

“Yes,” Eddard affirmed. “We're taking him with us now.”

Afterwards, he ordered his men to go get Gendry's belongings and to take them to the Red Keep.

The boy and Tobho Mott were both shaking when they said goodbye.

 

A while later, they arrived in the courtyard of the keep, Sandor Clegane uttering a little moan because of his broken ribs, but content enough since he had found and bought a good knife at the smithy. Gendry was still totally overwhelmed and didn't make a peep, taciturn as he seemed to be anyway.

“Father! Father! You're back!” a happy voice suddenly called.

Arya was storming into their direction. She hesitated, however, when she saw the Hound and came to a halt on spotting the boy. Suddenly, her body was strangely tense.

“Who's that? He looks like a smith with his apron.”

Eddard was proud of his daughter's cleverness.

“You're quite right, Arya. This is Gendry. He was indeed working in a smithy when we found him. And now, he's here.”

Lord Stark bowed closer, to Arya's ear, and whispered: “Promise me you'll keep it secret until everyone knows: he's Robert's son.”

The girl's eyes grew wide, and a strange gleam entered them.

She breathed: “A smith? A real smith? And the king's SON? You mean... like Jon? Whoa, yes, they look so much alike, now that you're telling me!”

Eddard grimaced: “You're a clever girl. But as I said: keep it secret for now.”

Arya nodded wildly, turned around to Gendry, beaming like the sun, and called out enthusiastically: “Hello! My name is Arya. Nice to meet you! Can we be friends? Do you pray to the Smith?”

Lord Stark was just about to reprimand her not to put the boy under more stress than he already was... when suddenly a bird-like Sansa flew down the stony entrance stairs, chiming “Sandor!” and hanging around the man's neck a moment later. The Hound grunted in pain, and Arya grunted in frustration about the love birds.

Lord Stark breathed and knew all too well he was back in the murky middle of the magic-induced madness of the Red Keep.

“One thing after the other,” he told himself. “First, Gendry has to meet Robert. Second, I have to tell Robert that I'll resign from the Hand's post for good and that I intend to return to Winterfell. This craziness is too much for me. To see him fondle Cersei every day – no, I can't take that. And third, I'll talk to Sansa and the Hound in private. If there must be a marriage it has to be one in the northern style so that it'll be accepted by my men; and Clegane has to be willing to come to the north with Sansa.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

As one could expect, Gendry was quite terrified by all the splendour around him... and Robert didn't make things easier. His jovial, companionable air was still existent after the love potion – just like his booming voice and his lack of sensitivity. On seeing the boy he just begged him closer with a wide grin, pulled him to his side airily though the lad was shy and hesitant, and embraced him in such a way that it would have crushed a child of lesser build.

“So what have I heard? You're my son? Well, it's visible enough. – Ned, what do you say, isn't the boy an image of his sire? – You look like me or your uncle Renly. What an impressive young man you are! And your name is Gendry? That's a good name! By the way, did my dear Lord Hand tell you that you'll live at court now? And that I intend to legitimise you? And that you'll get three half-brothers and a half-sister, isn't that great? We'll all be a very happy family!”

Lord Stark wasn't an oaf, and if he could see anything then it was that the young smith was so horrified that he only wanted to turn tail and run back to Tobho Mott. Which was no wonder. King Robert's massive presence could hit you like a roller, and even if he looked every inch like his sire it was all too obvious that Gendry had inherited none of his egocentric self-confidence.

Thus, Eddard spoke up: “Your Grace, you shouldn't shock the poor boy in such a way. He's just got to know that his father is alive – and a king at that. He has never seen royal luxury or experienced the courtly way of life before. You should give him some time to adapt.”

The monarch furrowed his brow: “Damn, Ned, you're right. Like so often. Ah, well Gendry, we'll make sure that you'll get a good room and some fine clothes. Oh, and you'll need some better education, am I right? Can you read or write? Can you ride? Can you fight in armour from horseback? Do you know the big noble houses?”

Gendry looked at the king helplessly. Finally, he manage to utter: “No... no, Your Grace.”

“Call me 'father', lad.” Robert weighed his head. “Hm, you'll get the best teachers, Gendry. They will instruct you about all the important things. Don't fear anything, you'll learn what you need to know.”

The youngster didn't seem to be interested in learning anything about the noble way of life; he only seemed to be intent on an escape. Lord Stark pitied him; yet, he was also oddly relieved that he himself wasn't the only one who was overstrained in the Red Keep these days.

At that moment, Cersei entered the room.

She smiled, fondled the king's beard and chimed: “Here you are, Robbele! Lord Stark. And who's that? Is it Gendry, as I've heard? – Well, Gendry, I'm Queen Cersei. Has my husband been as loud and pushy in his fatherly ways as I expect he has? Well, then I should better take you with me and show you your new room so you can settle down and relax a bit. And later, I can introduce you to your new brothers and your sister. I'm sure they'll show you around the Red Keep then. Joffrey is nearly of one age with you; perhaps he can be your friend for as long as he's still in King's Landing. – Robbele, is it all right if I take the boy with me now? He must be exhausted after all these new impressions.”

 

Lord Stark was simply listening and completely dumbfounded. Robbele!? An amiable, magnanimous Cersei!? What would come next? Dornish heat at the Wall?

 

Meanwhile, the king nodded and laughed: “I guess you're right, love. Take the boy with you for now. – I'll see you later then, Gendry.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the young smith answered in a tiny voice.

 

When Robert and Lord Stark were alone the king spoke up enthusiastically: “What a fine lad he is! I should have accepted him here sooner. When I legitimise him I'll ennoble him and give him a lordship. Oh, and by the way – now that the engagement between Sansa and Joffrey has come to an end we could make a match between your Arya and Gendry instead, what do you think? Then, our families would still be joined in marriage. Yes, we must really do it like this!”

For a moment, Eddard was taken by surprise.

When he recovered he tried to curb the king's verve: “Robert, at the moment, I'm still at risk of being torn alive by my wife when she hears of Sansa's and Clegane's likely marriage. Let's give the children both some time to develop before we decide anything, two or three years. It'll still be early enough then.”

The king sighed: “Ned, you're always such a laggard when it comes to making decisions. Ah, damn, if you want to have it like this we'll do it your way, for all I care.”

Lord Stark was relieved to hear that.

Yet, he still wasn't quite done with his monarch and friend: “Robert, there's one more thing. I'll lay down my office as your Hand.”

“What!?” the king boomed at once. “No bloody way! I need you by my side!”

The Warden of the North remained insistent: “It's not against you, Robert, but I've come to realise that I'm unfit for this job. I simply can't do it. Choose someone else, I beg you.”

“And who would that be? Cersei's gold-shitting father? Lord Varys? Lord Baelish? Sickly young Robert Arryn from the Vale, who wasn't even weaned from his mother's teats when I last saw him? Pffft! In that case I could throw myself off the Keep's battlements just as well.”

Lord Stark had already thought about the king's objections. Therefore, he was able to come up with an idea of his own: “As little as I like the Lannisters – what about Ser Kevan? He may be an arrogant Lion, too, but he's rather competent – from all I know –, and he's accustomed not to be the leader but the faithful orchestrator in the second line. I'm sure your wife's family would love the idea, and you could ask for an exchange value. Perhaps a cancellation of a part of your debts to Casterly Rock.”

Robert stroked his hair and bethought himself.

“I don't want to lose you, Ned. You know that. You're my friend and I want to have you around. Hm... the idea as such isn't complete rot, I must admit. Ned, are you sure you really want to head back north and to leave me alone?”

“Robert, King's Landing is driving me crazy, it's killing me. I can't be happy here. I need the cool, clear air of the north – and I've got a family there, and my own subjects. Winter is coming, you know?”

The king sighed again, this time in defeat, Lord Stark realised. The same instant his heart leapt and soared.

He'd return north! He'd go home!


	11. Chapter 11

 

Over the next three months, many things were arranged. Joffrey started to plan his voyage to Pentos to start his tour of the Free Cities before moving to Oldtown. The Prince was looking forward to his adventure very much, although he was sad that he'd have to travel without his “Dog”. Instead, he'd be accompanied by Lord Tyrion once the Imp was back from the Wall. Eddard wasn't happy about these intentions since the murder attempt on his son Bran back in Winterfell hadn't been cleared up yet, and it had been the Imp's dagger that had been used for the deed.

So he talked to Sandor Clegane in private about the affair.

“You've known him longer and better than me. What do you say about Tyrion Lannister?” Eddard wanted to know.

The Hound only spat out.

“Disgusting fellow and arrogant, because he thinks he's oh so clever. A real Lannister despite his size. But to be honest – I don't think it was him. He's intelligent, there's no denying that, and he wouldn't be so stupid as to put an easily recognisable weapon into an assassin's hand. If you ask me – that's a red herring. Normally, I'd suspect Varys or Littlefu...inger, but neither of them was in Winterfell. Be that as it may – Tyrion has got many enemies who might have an interest to foist the deed on to him.”

Lord Stark made a face. The Hound's reasoning was understandable. Perhaps it had really not been Tyrion's scheme after all. It was only so frustrating not to know the truth!

 

With regard to Gendry things were slowly settling. The boy was still very sullen and didn't embrace his new position with open arms. He had been assigned new teachers, amongst others a Braavosi who was supposed to teach him sword fighting. As Joffrey was busy with his own future plans, Myrcella didn't know what to do with the serious boy and Tommen only cared for his cats it fell to Arya to show Gendry around as best she could.

The two had taken to each other at once, even if they were arguing from time to time. Yet, Lord Stark came to think that the two fitted together well. Perhaps they'd indeed be a better match than Sansa and Joffrey, who knew? The problem was that Gendry was low-born, but Robert had made it already clear that his legitimised son would be given a high rank, so a marriage with Arya would still be a bit of a misalliance, but eventually, people would have to accept the king's bastard.

 

Apart from that – Sansa and Sandor Clegane were already causing much and more gossip already. Their betrothal had been announced by the king himself, and he had pretty much ordered their marriage. In this way, things were a little easier for Eddard with regard to his wife.

Lady Catelyn, who had still been hidden in the capital, had finally pretended to arrive at court and had been fuming and spitting about the impending marriage. Yet, with the king's explicit support of the match she couldn't do anything against it. Catelyn tried to reason with Sansa, tried to threat Clegane, beseeched the king... to no avail. Finally, she resigned and followed Sansa's ongoing enchantment with eyes that were as dark and frustrated as Arya's.

In the end, Sansa and Sandor had a wonderful marriage in the Godswood, in northern style, as the Hound had declared himself willing to settle down in Winterfell.

Lord Stark used that moment to tell his wife: “Be happy that Sansa will be back with us and will stay a while longer – until we've found the two of them an adequate castle.”

Lady Catelyn only glowered back and kept silent.

 

The same day did not only see Sansa's and Sandor's wedding. Actually, the courtiers moved from the Godswood straight to the sept where the Kingslayer married Lady Brienne of Tarth. The second couple looked a bit less enamoured than the first one, but Lord Stark still hoped – at least for Lady Brienne's sake – that the two would finally find together.

During the exuberant banquet an overjoyed King Robert made everything perfect by announcing that Queen Cersei was with child. Everyone clapped and shouted approvingly, and the king was “proud as fuck”, as Sandor Clegane murmured at Eddard's side.

 

And at long last, everything was packed after another week. Ser Kevan had arrived and taken up his job as the king's Hand, and there was nothing left to do for Lord Stark – other than to put his back on the capital. So on one late summer morning the household of the Warden of the North was swarming in the yard of the Red Keep.

Robert actually had a tear in his eyes when he clapped him on the back with a heavy paw, and Eddard promised his friend he'd be back after three years – when it was time to negotiate a match between Arya and Gendry.

His younger daughter was quite beside herself when she had to say goodbye to the taciturn boy, and Gendry showed as well that he had grown fond of Arya and didn't reject her when the girl hugged him wildly and sobbed into his new doublet.

Only when Lord Stark promised they'd visit Jon at the Wall when they arrived back in the north did she cheer up a little. And Eddard thought by himself that there was still a conversation he needed to have with Jon.

 

When the Trek left the castle and finally passed the boundaries of King's Landing the air wasn't contaminated by this rotten stench any more; it became fresh and sweet.

Eddard Stark smiled one of his rare smiles. Free. Free and heading home. The place where he belonged. He felt as if he could already taste snow on his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own my works of fanfiction/fanart. I do not profit from the stories or drawings, nor would I  
> ever seek to do so. All credit for characters, plot and settings go to the respective original author or artist.
> 
>  
> 
> Right. I hoped you liked the ending of the story. Thank you for all the encouraging comments! Each time I read my story made you laugh I was so very happy. Laughter is such a wonderful thing! :-)


End file.
